Isn't it rich?
Are we a pair?
Me here at last on the ground,
you in mid-air.
Where are the clowns?

Isn't it bliss?
Don't you approve?
One who keeps tearing around,
one who can't move.
Where are the clowns?
There ought to be clowns.

Just when I'd stopped
opening doors,
finally knowing
the one that I wanted was yours,
Making my entrance again,
with my usual flair,
Sure of my lines,
no one is there.

Don't you love farce?
My fault, I fear.
I thought that you'd want what I want
sorry, my dear.
And where are the clowns?
Quick, send in the clowns.
Don't bother, they're here.

Isn't it rich?
Isn't it queer?
Losing my timing this late
in my career?
And where are the clowns?
There ought to be clowns.
Well, maybe next year...

Copyright: Warner Chappell Music, Inc.
Writer(s): Stephen Sondheim